


God save me, but don't drown me out

by MiryelENG (Miryel)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, M/M, Melancholy, Metaphors, aot - Freeform, attack on titan - Freeform, church, jeanmarco, marco x jean - Freeform, pray, pre marco's death, snk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29779440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miryel/pseuds/MiryelENG
Summary: The silence frightens Jean. It is more frightening than any other noise. It scares him when the golden light of the setting sun bathes that dorm and makes it seem like a quiet place. He is afraid when the grass is green, lush and moves fast to the rhythm of the air; it looks like a stormy sea. It looks like his heart.[ Jeanmarco / angst / One Shot ]
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	God save me, but don't drown me out

**(english isn't my primary language, so if you'll find some mistakes please tell me ♥)**

**God save me, but don't drown me out**

"ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ʷᵃˢᵗᵉ ᵐʸ ˡⁱᶠᵉ 'ᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ⁱ'ᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᵉᵈ ᵘᵖ  
' ᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ⁱᵗ ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ'ᵗ ᵐᵃᵗᵗᵉʳ ˢᵒ ʷᵃˢᵗᵉ ᵐʸ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵍᵒᵈ ˢᵃᵛᵉ ᵃˡˡ ᵒᶠ ᵘˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃˡˡˢ,  
ᵗʰᵉʸ'ˡˡ ˢʰᵃᵗᵗᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱ ʷᵒⁿ'ᵗ ˡᵉᵗ ᵐʸ ⁱⁿˢᵉᶜᵘʳⁱᵗⁱᵉˢ ᵈᵉᶠⁱⁿᵉ ʷʰᵒ ⁱ ᵃᵐ, ⁱ ᵃᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ʷᵃˢᵗᵉ ᵐʸ ˡⁱᶠᵉ  
'ᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ⁱ'ᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᵉᵈ ᵘᵖ' ᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ⁱᵗ ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ'ᵗ ᵐᵃᵗᵗᵉʳ »  
ʸᵘⁿᵍᵇˡᵘᵈ - ᵍᵒᵈ ˢᵃᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ, ᵇᵘᵗ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵈʳᵒʷⁿ ᵐᵉ ᵒᵘᵗ

The silence frightens Jean. It is more frightening than any other noise. It scares him when the golden light of the setting sun bathes that dorm and makes it seem like a quiet place. He is afraid when the grass is green, lush and moves fast to the rhythm of the air; it looks like a stormy sea. It looks like his heart.

He is afraid of the chirping of cicadas, which herald the arrival of summer and seem only a distant sound. He is afraid of the chirping of robins that rest calmly on the branches of trees. He is afraid of the stillness, he is afraid of the calm, of the stillness of some moments. And he is afraid of all this, because they are moments that are not eternal.

Tranquility is not in its nature, and outside those walls it is not contemplated. They are tall, majestic, almost scarier than giants. And the calm, in that life, has the taste of chaos. It always seems like there's only so much noise afterwards. He throws open the door of the prefabricated wooden building; one step ahead of the other on that sun-drenched corridor The boots stamp on the parquet and it squeaks. It is a broken noise, which almost makes him believe that, sooner or later, the floor will collapse under his feet and he will fall into absolute emptiness. In a black abyss.

Only hope keeps him afloat, but he doesn't want to fight. His only desire is to stay away from war as much as possible, entering the Gendarmerie, and living a simple life, waiting for the others to die as heroes and restore him to a normal life. A life that doesn't even know how to imagine.

A life that does not include very high walls that divide it from the rest of the world. A life made up of wider, different choices. Perhaps even disinterested. Instead this life foresees few ways and all lethal ones. He doesn't want to join the Gendarmerie just to not fight, he wants to do it to die as late as possible because, Jean knows, that fate is inevitable.

He opens the door to his room, the one he shares with everyone else. He knows that these are out, training with each other; someone will stay longer, perhaps to ask that idiot Eren some more details about the giant who destroyed his house and ruined his life. And that tells, with fear in his eyes, of how he had a shameless luck to save himself. And Jean wonders how it is possible that, after what he has had to go through, he still has the courage to pretend to be resolute and courageous.

Eren is not. Rather, he knows how to hide it well, and is an idiot with whom he no longer wants to confront. It makes him feel cowardly, even though he has always been honest with himself: he does not want to die and sacrifice himself for those who do not deserve it; for those who speculate on their lives; for those who see them from above as if they were pawns placed on a chessboard.

He doesn't want to be ruled by anyone. He doesn't want them to send him to die like a dog. He doesn't want to save the world; Jean wants to be saved.

The room window is open; the white curtains flutter without any logic to the rhythm of the wind. It is hot, boiling air, and the silence is still there crushing it. The wood of the walls intensely reflects the orange light of the sunset; it seems to live in a different world, in a dimension where there are no Giants and where none of them is called to preserve the salvation of mankind.

Then, sitting on his bed, with his fingers twisted together, there is Marco. He gets the feeling he didn't even hear it coming, but sometimes that guy just doesn't seem to want to make a sound. It entered his life on tiptoe, and Jean ardently wanted him to stay close to him. He wants me to do it forever.

And He also wants Marco to preserve a minimum of self-love and choose his own path, staying by his side to wait for the last glimpse of the world to be given together, before dying at the hands of a destiny they cannot control.

It approaches. He sits next to him, but Marco doesn't seem surprised. He stays with his eyes closed, his hands still clenched, but a slight smile lights up his face. It always seems that, faced with that gesture, everything is paradoxically right. Then he turns and looks at him. They remain silent for seconds that seem like hours; silences that are still too frightening, and not because they embarrass him, but because Jean wants the quiet to be less invasive, more noisy. He needs it to forget all this.

"What is it that you pray?"

"Nothing in particular. Maybe someone who isn't there. "

Jean snorts; he looks away and rests his palms on the mattress. Because Marco is so pure that sometimes it almost annoys him to be so. It seems naive to him, but he is more aware than many other people. Yet, then, he does these things. It bends to a divine will that is not there. There has never been and never will be. Something that can't exist, or else they wouldn't be in that situation.

"If there were someone, I don't think we would be reduced to this."

"Or maybe, who knows, it would be much worse." Marco smiles and Jean looks back at him. His eyes are sad, full of too many things that he cannot fully read. Because Marco is an open book, but only when he wants and sometimes does not allow him to read his soul.

"What do you mean? How can anyone think of being worse than this? "

"Have you ever thought about the fact that maybe it's just a punishment for how humanity has lived up to now?" Maybe it's just a mere illusion, but the idea that this is the case reassures me. " It seems absurd. Absurd that someone like him could think such a thing. That he can go beyond reality and believe that this is not already _the worst._

They are trapped in a city; they are victims of a wall that is like a mouth that is swallowing them, yet Marco seems to pretend he hasn't even noticed. Does not want? Or Can't? In any case, it's all ridiculous.

"Why would such a thing reassure you?"

Then Marco pauses for a long time. He gathers breath in his lungs with slow breaths and, turning towards the window, he doesn't seem to want to share his eyes with his, and this hurts. It hurts to think that that young man does not want to expose himself, perhaps for fear of showing himself weak. Yet Jean remembers that he never cared about looking like something he isn't, _especially with him_ . There is a different bond, they are more sincere, between them. There have never been any secrets.

Or maybe yes. Jean, inside, carries one that he cannot confide in him.

"Because I need to think so, Jean."

"It's bullshit," he snaps, and Marco doesn't even take it. Go back to look at him and sigh. He lowers his eyes and clenches his fists on his knees. It doesn't even tremble. He is aware of what he is saying and the absurdity of that conversation. There is no reason to think that he is lying, on the contrary; perhaps he has never been more sincere than this. Perhaps he never revealed his fears as he is doing right now.

Jean is annihilated, but he doesn't speak. He does not continue those accusations, because Marco will accept everything he says. Because Marco knows that what he is holding on to is a fragile hold. A grip that yields easily, attached to a papier-mâché wall with spit.

Fragile as too many things are in that room.

“Maybe they are, but it is always better to believe that there will never be anyone to put things in their place. As I told you, I need to believe that things are going this way. "

"Why?"

“Because otherwise I wouldn't have the strength to leave this room without believing it. Because I need a _reason_ , and if you have yours I'm happy for you. Maybe that's enough for you. "

_No, that's not enough for me. This is not enough for me. I wish it was your motive too._

"What do you want to know about it?" Jean gets up. He pockets his hands and reaches for the window. He looks out, but his eyes see nothing but dust. They are projected towards the decadent destiny from which they cannot escape, and the dust is there, on that end that awaits them, like a patina ready to vanish as soon as the time comes.

_What does Marco want to know about what makes him happy? What does Marco want to know about his reason for not stopping? How can that fool only think that Jean is really moving and that he is not, in truth, still in a static point just waiting for the inevitable._

"I didn't say I know, I just said that if you have one, for a reason, I'm happy for you."

"You keep guessing without knowing," replies Jean, through clenched teeth, and sees him, Marco, who lowers his gaze. He sees it out of the corner of his eye. But he doesn't turn to look at him; he can't.

«I'm sorry», Marco begins, and his voice is a sweet hiss in the silence of a day that is frightening for its quiet. "I took it for granted."

«Why do you pray? Is it really as useful as you think? What does it give you? What do you feel when you do it? Do you really feel better? Does it really give you the hope you need, Marco? "

“Maybe it's just a placebo effect. As I told you, I need it to hide reality. Everyone has his own way of doing it », replies the other, and if Marco hadn't said it, Jean would think he did it with a certain hostile tone.

He turns around. "I don't have a way."

«No?» Asks Marco, rhetorically. "And then the fact of wanting to enter the body of the Gendarmerie?" Don't you always say you want to do it so you don't have to fight and survive? "

Jean raises an eyebrow, and looks him up and down. "Is not the same thing."

"It is. You convince yourself that it is for that, but the truth is that you know very well that, probably, you would only push away an inevitable fate. You know it and I know it, Jean. That's it. "

Jean grits his teeth. Clenches his fists. He points his feet against the floor, and the only feeling running through him right now is fear. It is the fear of knowing that Marco has understood his real reason and the fact that he is slamming it in his face after he has done so much to keep it hidden almost even from himself.

"It's ridiculous. What you say ... it's ridiculous. "

"Then tell me, why you want to enter the Gendarmerie corps."

"You know. I do it because I'm not a fool like Eren; I don't want to be a hero and prove to be one by dying on the field. It would not make sense. I don't even mind doing it for the homeland and for glory. It's stupid. ”He knows. He knows that last dig is aimed at Marco - what he heard him say that day when Commander Shadis introduced them. And Marco has exhibited an unprecedented sequence of _bullshit_ , on the homeland, on the glory, on the honor. All bullshit Jean never believed in, and hearing it from his mouth was pretty ... _disappointing._ Marco is a fool, a pure damn, a gullible. An idiot who places too much hope in the future.

“Then maybe I'm just stupid but… I'm fine that you don't like me clinging to something, but I need it and the fact that you don't have a hold doesn't mean I have to deprive myself of mine, Jean. Find your. Maybe I insist too much but, in my opinion, you would need it. " Marco sighs, gets to his feet, releasing his hands on his knees. He sighs again, when he gives him one last look and, shaking his head imperceptibly, starts to leave.

Jean looks at his back, motionless. It follows its trajectory, the shoulder blades flexing with each movement. He bends his right hand when he raises his hand to tighten it around the door handle.

"I have it," he snaps.

Time seems to turn into a soap bubble. It swells, expands, sparkles with rainbow colors against the sunset light, and shortly afterwards, it bursts. In one, miserable moment. It used to be a fragile shield, now it's just soap thrown to the ground.

Marco stops. He doesn't turn around. Doesn't open the door. It is just there, still, static. Motionless like a wax statue.

"I don't need to attach myself to something abstract. I don't need to believe in a cult of fools."

«It is not that god, that I pray. You know what I think of those madmen. It's a more personal, more _internal thing_ . "

"I know. But it's abstract, Marco. You can't deny it. "

"So what are you holding on to, so as not to collapse? What makes you want to stay here, and not go back to your house to wait for someone to save you without making the slightest effort? What drives you to stay here but not to take the field? What keeps you in this limbo? "

Marco sometimes seems stupid. Or at least Jean believes it. No, it's not stupid, it's just _kind_ , _pure, genuine_ . But he is also _sincere, frank, combative_ , especially with him. He has moved it so many times that Jean has lost count but, as always, he doesn't want to admit it. He only knows that, in the end, Marco is the only person able to shake his soul and bring him back to earth, when no one else is able to.

Not even himself. But when did Jean ever manage to be consistent with himself?

"You," he just says. “You keep me here. You always kept me here. "

Marco's expression, when he turns around, is not smiling as he would have hoped. It is not the sunflower that has always illuminated him, following his gaze as if it were the sun. No, because Jean has never been the sun, but he is the one who has always followed Marco in his every move, his every choice, his every word. And Jean is not a sunflower. It is just a blade of grass among many others, following the largest star in the galaxy and hoping it will notice it sooner or later.

"Jean ..."

“I know it doesn't make sense. But at least now you know. I don't like lying to you. "

“I'm not such a firm foothold; you risk falling. " And now he smiles. With sadness, with that sadness that, however, never takes from his eyes that light that illuminates the rest of the world, making it better than Jean might believe.

“I've never fallen, until now. You didn't know, now you know. It doesn't change things. I'm still here."

“There must be another reason you don't want to tell me. It can't be me. "

"Why?" Asks Jean, and takes a step forward. Marco rotates his torso totally, and is now straight in front of him. Lower your eyes. Again.

«Because you are my foothold. And I'm too unstable to be yours. "

So Jean does the only thing he can do at that moment. It reaches him. With a rage inside that makes his eyes and heart tremble. Maybe even the soul and the knees. It remains to look at it and does not speak; Marco looks up and sticks his eyes in Jean's.

They can only look at each other, while they talk to each other with their silences and, before everything can collapse and the courage fail, Jean embraces him. He hugs him so tightly that his arms tremble, and Marco's bones seem to creak under his grip, but when he reciprocates the parquet it seems to vanish under his feet. He doesn't have the strength to say anything, just to break away and leave him, as soon as he leans, a kiss on the side of the mouth and then go back to sink him head into his shoulder.

"Then why do you pray?" He asks him, in a faint voice that trembles.

Marco sighs in his hair, on which he then lays a delicate kiss on the edge of his lips. "For you."

_Keep doing it then. Pray for me, Marco, that I don't have the strength. I never had the strength to do it enough for anyone._

_Not even for me, not even for you. Not even for us._

**The End**

«ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ᵃ ᵇʳᵉᵃᵗʰ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʳʸ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵏ ˢᵗʳᵃⁱᵍʰᵗ 'ᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ'ˢ ˢᵒ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᵖʳᵉˢˢᵘʳᵉ ᵒⁿ ᵐʸ ᶠᵘᶜᵏⁱⁿ' ᵇʳᵃⁱⁿ  
ᵃⁿᵈ ᵐʸ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ ʳᵘⁿˢ ᵗʰⁱⁿ 'ᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ⁱ'ᵐ ᵒᶠᶠ ᵐʸ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵐʸ ˢʰᵒᵘˡᵈᵉʳˢ  
ʷᵉⁱᵍʰ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ⁱ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ (ⁱ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᶠᵘᶜᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ⁱᵗ) »   
ʸᵘⁿᵍᵇˡᵘᵈ - ᵍᵒᵈ ˢᵃᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ, ᵇᵘᵗ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵈʳᵒʷⁿ ᵐᵉ ᵒᵘᵗ


End file.
